by Lee Dawei, William A. Pifer-Foote, and the PG Online
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IN THE MIDST OF ALARMS

by

ROBERT BARR

1894

TO E.B.

CHAPTER I.

In the marble-floored vestibule of the Metropolitan Grand Hotel in
Buffalo, Professor Stillson Renmark stood and looked about him with the
anxious manner of a person unused to the gaudy splendor of the modern
American house of entertainment. The professor had paused halfway
between the door and the marble counter, because he began to fear that
he had arrived at an inopportune time, that something unusual was going
on. The hurry and bustle bewildered him.

An omnibus, partly filled with passengers, was standing at the door,
its steps backed over the curbstone, and beside it was a broad, flat
van, on which stalwart porters were heaving great square, iron-bound
trunks belonging to commercial travelers, and the more fragile, but not
less bulky, saratogas, doubtless the property of the ladies who sat
patiently in the omnibus. Another vehicle which had just arrived was
backing up to the curb, and the irate driver used language suitable to
the occasion; for the two restive horses were not behaving exactly in
the way he liked.

A man with a stentorian, but monotonous and mournful, voice was filling
the air with the information that a train was about to depart for
Albany, Saratoga, Troy, Boston, New York, and the East. When he came to
the words "the East," his voice dropped to a sad minor key, as if the
man despaired of the fate of those who took their departure in that
direction. Every now and then a brazen gong sounded sharply; and one of
the negroes who sat in a row on a bench along the marble-paneled wall
sprang forward to the counter, took somebody's handbag, and disappeared
in the direction of the elevator with the newly arrived guest following
him. Groups of men stood here and there conversing, heedless of the
rush of arrival and departure around them.

Before the broad and lofty plate-glass windows sat a row of men, some
talking, some reading, and some gazing outside, but all with their feet
on the brass rail which had been apparently put there for that purpose.
Nearly everybody was smoking a cigar. A lady of dignified mien came
down the hall to the front of the counter, and spoke quietly to the
clerk, who bent his well-groomed head deferentially on one side as he
listened to what she had to say. The men instantly made way for her.
She passed along among them as composedly as if she were in her own
drawing room, inclining her head slightly to one or other of her
acquaintances, which salutation was gravely acknowledged by the raising
of the hat and the temporary removal of the cigar from the lips.

All this was very strange to the professor, and he felt himself in a
new world, with whose customs he was not familiar. Nobody paid the
slightest attention to him as he stood there among it all with his
satchel in his hand. As he timidly edged up to the counter, and tried
to accumulate courage enough to address the clerk, a young man came
forward, flung his handbag on the polished top of the counter,
metaphorically brushed the professor aside, pulled the bulky register
toward him, and inscribed his name on the page with a rapidity equaled
only by the illegibility of the result.

"Hello, Sam!" he said to the clerk. "How's things? Get my telegram?"

"Yes," answered the clerk; "but I can't give you 27. It's been taken
for a week. I reserved 85 for you, and had to hold on with my teeth to
do that."

The reply of the young man was merely a brief mention of the place of
torment.

"It _is_ hot," said the clerk blandly. "In from Cleveland?"

"Yes. Any letters for me?"

"Couple of telegrams. You'll find them up in 85."

"Oh, you were cocksure I'd take that room?"

"I was cocksure you'd have to. It is that or the fifth floor. We're
full. Couldn't give a better room to the President if he came."

"Oh, well, what's good enough for the President I can put up with for a
couple of days."

The hand of the clerk descended on the bell. The negro sprang forward
and took the "grip."

"Eighty-five," said the clerk; and the drummer and the Negro
disappeared.

"Is there any place where I could leave my bag for a while?" the
professor at last said timidly to the clerk.

"Your bag?"

The professor held it up in view.

"Oh, your grip. Certainly. Have a room, sir?" And the clerk's hand
hovered over the bell.

"No. At least, not just yet. You see, I'm----"

"All right. The baggage man there to the left will check it for you."

"Any letters for Bond?" said a man, pushing himself in front of the
professor. The clerk pulled out a fat bunch of letters from the
compartment marked "B," and handed the whole lot to the inquirer, who
went rapidly over them, selected two that appeared to be addressed to
him, and gave the letters a push toward the clerk, who placed them
where they were before.

The professor paused a moment, then, realizing that the clerk had
forgotten him, sought the baggage man, whom he found in a room filled
with trunks and valises. The room communicated with the great hall by
means of a square opening whose lower ledge was breast high. The
professor stood before it, and handed the valise to the man behind this
opening, who rapidly attached one brass check to the handle with a
leather thong, and flung the other piece of brass to the professor. The
latter was not sure but there was something to pay, still he quite
correctly assumed that if there had been the somewhat brusque man would
have had no hesitation in mentioning the fact; in which surmise his
natural common sense proved a sure guide among strange surroundings.
There was no false delicacy about the baggage man.

Although the professor was to a certain extent bewildered by the
condition of things, there was still in his nature a certain dogged
persistence that had before now stood him in good stead, and which had
enabled him to distance, in the long run, much more brilliant men. He
was not at all satisfied with his brief interview with the clerk. He
resolved to approach that busy individual again, if he could arrest his
attention. It was some time before he caught the speaker's eye, as it
were, but when he did so, he said:

"I was about to say to you that I am waiting for a friend from New York
who may not yet have arrived. His name is Mr. Richard Yates of the----"

"Oh, Dick Yates! Certainly. He's here." Turning to the negro, he said:
"Go down to the billiard room and see if Mr. Yates is there. If he is
not, look for him at the bar."

The clerk evidently knew Mr. Dick Yates. Apparently not noticing the
look of amazement that had stolen over the professor's face, the clerk
said:

"If you wait in the reading room, I'll send Yates to you when he comes.
The boy will find him if he's in the house; but he may be uptown."

The professor, disliking to trouble the obliging clerk further, did not
ask him where the reading room was. He inquired, instead, of a hurrying
porter, and received the curt but comprehensive answer:

The professor, after getting into the barber shop and the cigar store,
finally found his way into the reading room. Numerous daily papers were
scattered around on the table, each attached to a long, clumsy cleft
holder made of wood; while other journals, similarly encumbered, hung
from racks against the wall. The professor sat down in one of the easy
leather-covered chairs, but, instead of taking up a paper, drew a thin
book from his pocket, in which he was soon so absorbed that he became
entirely unconscious of his strange surroundings. A light touch on the
shoulder brought him up from his book into the world again, and he saw,
looking down on him, the stern face of a heavily mustached stranger.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but may I ask if you are a guest of this
house?"

A shade of apprehension crossed the professor's face as he slipped the
book into his pocket. He had vaguely felt that he was trespassing when
he first entered the hotel, and now his doubts were confirmed.

"I--I am not exactly a guest," he stammered.

"What do you mean by not exactly a guest?" continued the other,
regarding the professor with a cold and scrutinizing gaze. "A man is
either a guest or he is not, I take it. Which is it in your case?"

"I presume, technically speaking, I am not."

"Technically speaking! More evasions. Let me ask you, sir, as an
ostensibly honest man, if you imagine that all this luxury--this--this
elegance--is maintained for nothing? Do you think, sir, that it is
provided for any man who has cheek enough to step out of the street and
enjoy it? Is it kept up, I ask, for people who are, technically
speaking, not guests?"

The expression of conscious guilt deepened on the face of the
unfortunate professor. He had nothing to say. He realized that his
conduct was too flagrant to admit of defense, so he attempted none.
Suddenly the countenance of his questioner lit up with a smile, and
he smote the professor on the shoulder.

"Well, old stick-in-the-mud, you haven't changed a particle in fifteen
years! You don't mean to pretend you don't know me?"

"You can't--you can't be Richard Yates?"

"I not only can, but I can't be anybody else. I know, because I have
often tried. Well, well, well, well! Stilly we used to call you; don't
you remember? I'll never forget that time we sang 'Oft in the stilly
night' in front of your window when you were studying for the exams.
You always _were_ a quiet fellow, Stilly. I've been waiting for
you nearly a whole day. I was up just now with a party of friends when
the boy brought me your card--a little philanthropic gathering--sort of
mutual benefit arrangement, you know: each of us contributed what we
could spare to a general fund, which was given to some deserving person
in the crowd."

"Yes," said the professor dryly. "I heard the clerk telling the boy
where he would be most likely to find you."

"Oh, you did, eh?" cried Yates, with a laugh. "Yes, Sam generally knows
where to send for me; but he needn't have been so darned public about it.
Being a newspaper man, I know what ought to go in print and what should
have the blue pencil run through it. Sam is very discreet, as a general
thing; but then he knew, of course, the moment he set eyes on you, that
you were an old pal of mine."

Again Yates laughed, a very bright and cheery laugh for so evidently
wicked a man.

"Come along," he said, taking the professor by the arm. "We must get
you located."

They passed out into the hall, and drew up at the clerk's counter.

"I say, Sam," cried Yates, "can't you do something better for us than
the fifth floor? I didn't